Almost the last stop, almost at the end of Laos. Four hours of waiting and then ten more in the least comfortable bus in the world. Stomach, liver and other viscera swap places from continuous shocks, breaches and turns. My body is sick for the next few days. I wish I could say that it was worth all that hustle, but unfortunately Phongsali has not got an ounce of soothing charm.

The next day, the six of us set off. We trek, trying to fight back leeches. They, in turn, use every opportunity to suck out as much blood as possible. I pull up socks to the knees – maybe cotton will finish them off.

In villages we pass by, there is no living soul. Most people work in the fields, sowing rice for the coming harvest. After seven hours we reach the goal – the Akha village. No one cares about our presence. Only children poke us, laughing from ear to ear. Adults keep their distance. Nevertheless, we play cards and drink lao lao whiskey. The next day headache is so strong that I want to cut off my head.